The Harder They Fall
by CADay
Summary: Moriarty delivers. Sherlock falls. But what happens to John in the end of it all? What does the soldier do when his best friend is dead? AU, I guess.
1. Then

"You have to reenlist me. There's nothing keeping me here in the city. Not now that-" He swallowed hard. "That he's gone. I need a change of scenery, but I can't bring myself to move out of the flat and I can't stay there. I'm fine, I tell you. Look!" He pointed to his leg. "No limp. Bullet wound healed completely. My tremor is even gone," he said as he held his left hand at chest level and willed it not to shake. He wasn't sure if he was actually over the tremor. He hadn't seen much peace since meeting Sherlock. Just thinking the name sent a pang through his chest and he fought to keep his face blank. He had to get out of London. He had to reenlist. It was either that or slowly get to the point where he'd eat the end of his old service pistol.

The man look up at him to scrutinize his face, and John held his breath in hopes of staying expressionless. There was a deep, constant pain in his chest, and it would only leave once he saw more action. More blood, more pain. So when the man nodded wordlessly and signed the papers, John felt the pain lessen marginally. He was cleared for active duty.

**AN: Sorry it's so short. Leave a review pretty please**


	2. A few months later

-A few months later-

John rushed into the open area, oblivious to the gunfire surrounding him. He had to save the boy that was bleeding to death on the ground. The hail of bullets made no difference as he scooped the boy off of the ground and threw him across his shoulders. They were flying so close that John felt one rip into his uniform, barely grazing his side. The pain shot through him and briefly lessened the pain in his chest. More action, more blood, more pain.

He pushed off hard. One foot in front of the other. Running. Gasping. Grinning. The boy across his shoulders hardly registered as John pumped his short legs harder. The pain in his side grew as his uniform began to stick to him. He was out of shape; he felt a stitch starting in the opposite side. But it felt so good to flat out run. When was the last time he had truly run for his life? Or someone else's?

**_SHERLOCK!_**  
_The cyclist came out of nowhere. _  
_'Sherlock! I have to get up.'_  
_The world spins. _  
_Then collapses._  
_Sherlock. _  
_No pulse. _  
_'My friend'_  
_No_

John shook his head vigorously to clear away the ghosts of the past. His feet pounded rhythmically as he headed back to the base. It amazed him that he hadn't been shot in the back yet. One foot in front of the other. He could feel the blood from the boy soaking his shoulders. 'Faster, Watson, faster!' The boy was going to die if he didn't get him back soon.

It was another couple minutes of hard running before John could swiftly deposit the boy on an operating table. A surgeon was standing by, ready to operate, and the boy was still alive and almost conscious, judging by his soft moans. John felt he could count this as a win.

He returned back to his bunk feeling triumphant. Not even the night watch could ruin his mood. He needed to get ready. He was pulling first shift. His lips were in a thin line as the captain stood before the mirror. His uniform was covered in blood, but he had convinced the surgeon none of it was his. He was a doctor; he could damn well bandage it himself. He peeled away the torn fabric and gritted his teeth. It was fairly shallow; a few stitches and he would be fine. He sighed and fingered the ripped cloth. He about needed a new uniform. The blood wasn't going to come out, and it was too much trouble to mend yet another tear. Rather than going too all that trouble, he shucked off his shirt and pulled out his small doctor's kit.

Disinfect. Apply anaesthetic. Clean wound. Close wound. Stitch. Bandage.

He nodded with satisfaction. He could still function as needed.


	3. Leaving the War

For night watch, John sat on the edge of camp and did a patrol in random intervals. Most guards waited fifteen minutes before walking the perimeter, but normally he did it whenever the notion took him. It was better that way. The more unpredictable he was, the less likely the enemy was to try to pass him. But the guard duty wasn't easy for him.

There was always a lack of action out there at that time of night, and inaction led to downtime. Downtime led to thinking. Thinking led to Sherlock. Even months after he had abandoned John, the soldier found himself slipping into his memories of their adventures. Those memories led to the case with Moriarity. Moriarity led to the Fall. The Fall led to guilt and pain and regret and self-hatred. Those emotions led to John staring longingly at the barrel of his gun. Thoughts of suicide led to a brisk walk around the perimeter, if not a flat out run.

Tonight he couldn't run. He couldn't even walk fast. He would rip his stitches. So he walked at a normal pace, checking both sides of the perimeter. A flash of light, very small, almost imperceptible, caught his eye. He knew it could be nothing or it could be something. He reported his position and what he saw into his radio and was told someone was coming to help him check.

That ground at John's nerves. He was a captain. He could damn well check things on his own. He wasn't anywhere near as green as most of the men he was serving with.

He crossed the line, staying low and covering himself. His body was on a swivel as he turned and worked his way toward the flash. Most likely it was going to be nothing. A can someone had left carelessly beyond the perimeter. Nothing worth calling others out for.

John was walking faster than normal. He needed to get back to his post, and he was taking more than slight pleasure at the sensation of his wound trying to rip open. Downright distracted by it, actually. He knew just how to step to stretch the stitches as far as possible without ripping them. He really needed to be going faster so no one would miss him, but the stitches couldn't hold against that.

So Captain Watson continued beyond the perimeter at the same pace. The glint was steady under the moonlight, no cloud cover to hide it. Which meant there was no cloud cover to hide him.

When the first shot rang out, John was so confused that he froze and turned to look back toward the camp. Surely that deep ripping sensation wasn't a bullet going through the back of his thigh. His knees buckled and hit the sand as another bullet ripped through his shoulder, passing within inches of the wound that had sent him home the first time around.

'Ambush,' he thought as another piece of lead tore through his body, 'How dull.' The life fled from his blue eyes as his body landed sideways in the sand.


	4. Now

"He was fearless. He was the bravest of all of us, doing things we were too afraid to do. John Watson saved my ass more times than I can count." The man behind the podium ran a hand over his regulation hair and glanced toward the open coffin. People were supposed to look like they were sleeping, weren't they? His captain didn't look like he was sleeping. He looked dead.

His blonde hair was streaked grey, but at least they had gotten all of the sand out of it. That had to have been difficult. After the months spent out in the desert, it must have been almost impossible to get all the sand off of the dead soldier. Maybe they didn't. 'Focus,' he told himself. This was his captain's funeral. He had to repay the man for everything.

He cleared his throat and continued, trying to sound less coarse. These people were civvies. They weren't used to this.

"Captain John Watson saved all of us, whether it was in surgery or simply through talking to us. He was our adopted father figure, I s'pose. He will be missed." The young man stepped away and saluted his captain before taking his seat.

The funeral proceeded much like the last funeral John had been to. Not that John knew that. But some of those attending did.


End file.
